This Distance Defines Us
by Kaesteranya
Summary: Flash fiction pieces and other things for Ramza, Delita and their relationship, with occasional appearances from other members of the cast. Some of them may be on the gay side.
1. Carve your name unto my arm

**Carve your name unto my arm**

_Theme date: July 17, 2007._

_Watch out, folks: there are references to the FF7 universe in this one._

* * *

Ever since they had retrieved the sword from its resting place in the volcano, Cloud Strife — by far, the most mysterious member of Ramza's party — refused to use any other weapon but that strange, impossibly long yet strangely blunt blade. Ramza might have protested (individual idiosyncrasies were only tolerable insofar as they did not effect the party's battle capabilities), but for some inexplicable reason Cloud performed phenomenally better with the sword in his hands, and was suddenly capable of performing fantastic moves whose likes had never been seen before in all of Ivalice whenever he wielded it.

There was no logical explanation to it. The mages in Ramza's party claimed, with certainty, that there was no sorcery at work; the magic knights theorized that it may be similar to their own respective styles, but it still did not explain why Cloud's skills were dependent on a particular blade. Asking Cloud himself, of course, yielded no results: between him and Balthier, another "traveler", Cloud talked less about himself or the place that he had come from.

Ramza would not share this with anyone, but he actually had a personal theory on how Cloud was dependent on the blade for strength — that the blond 'SOLDIER' allowed no one to handle the sword but himself and would sometimes be spotted running his fingers across its blade like he was looking for answers confirmed his suspicions. Ramza knew a ritual born out of the memories of a dear friend when he saw one: he, for one, still kept Delita's favorite blade from their youth tucked away in the party's war chest, and maintained it in the hopes that someday, Delita would come back.


	2. My hard is harden'd, it cannot repent

**My heart is hardn'd, I cannot repent**

_Theme date: February 22, 2008._

* * *

Delita would never admit it to himself, but it had hurt in a way he could not define or understand, seeing Ramza in Warjilis. He remembered, with regret, the feeling he had, watching the Beoulve disembark from the ship with his party. The cawing of the seagulls, the noise of the harbor and the heat of the afternoon had faded from his awareness at that point, leaving Delita to study the sun-browned skin of Ramza's face, or the way the sunlight played across his old friend's blond hair.

Ramza was the worst kind of soldier, the kind that worse his heart on his sleeve and was always obvious about what he planned to do next in battle — Delita saw that in action that afternoon, when he had told Ramza that his efforts were futile in the hopes of driving him away from danger. He would remember the hurt in Ramza's eyes and the broken note in his voice for a while yet, but he locked it away in a part of his heart that he no longer used, and carried out his ambitions without looking back.


	3. Leave the lies illconcealed

**Leave the lies ill-concealed and the wounds never healed and the games not worth winning**.

_Theme date: March 2, 2007._

_Spoilers for what happens near and during the end of the game._

* * *

On the day Queen Ovelia was buried, Delita Heiral — her beloved King — went without escort to pray at a small church on the outskirts of Zeltennia. The foul weather made for a near empty building, with no one else around but he and a few particularly fervent believers scattered among the pews. Delita selected a seat near the back of the church, and focused on the gentle light of the candles. Meditating made it easier to forget the sight of Ovelia sleeping among her favorite flowers. She had been beautiful to the end, he realized, even as she had coughed out her own heart's blood and looked, with sorrow, from the sword lodged in her chest to the man who wielded it. The man who had loved her.

Delita bowed his head. The hours wore on and the other worshippers in the chapel drifted off, one by one, until he alone remained. It was close to midnight by the time the church doors opened again, to admit a group of world-weary travelers inside.

"Brother… brother, look!"

"I know, Alma. All of you, leave. Take my sister with you."

"Are you certain?"

"I am, Agrias. If I have not returned within an hour, make for Bervenia."

Silence; a moment after, the five others in the room complied, tugging the girl in their midst away by the arm. The sixth remained where he was, watching his companions leave. The sound of the chapel doors closing echoed throughout the building.

"Hello, Delita. I did not think we'd meet again like this."

"Odd circumstances mar both our lives, Ramza."

The blond only bowed his head and smiled. He looked older and harsher, a far cry from the fiery, idealistic bastard child that had spent his childhood years chasing after his father's legacy. Delita did not wonder what had changed. He knew that if there was anything or anyone to blame, it had to have been him.

"You are alone. Where are your guards?"

"I cannot pray for my wife's soul in peace if I am constantly surrounded by rabble."

"Ah, of course. You were the one who killed her, after all."

"It was suicide."

"Of course."

Ramza walked down the aisle, and knelt before the altar. The tip of his sword kissed the velvet carpet at his feet. "You can still repent, Delita," he said in a low voice, without turning around. "It is never too late to go back."

"I do not need the pity of a heretic."

Delita stood up and left. Ramza never moved to speak out or stop him. In the later months, whenever sleep was too hard to come by, the King returned to that obscure little chapel, always without escort. Ramza Beoulve, however, was never seen there again.


End file.
